


drunk on the light in the leaves

by kirazi



Series: Fountainverse [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (Nice), 69 (Sex Position), F/M, Outdoor Sex, Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, and not much else, just a bunch of sentimental boning in the springtime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:14:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23955946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirazi/pseuds/kirazi
Summary: A man with a dead family has no right to feel this giddy. It doesn’t stop him.(Jaime and Brienne engage in some outdoor recreation, two years after the war's end.)
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Series: Fountainverse [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1595203
Comments: 73
Kudos: 221





	drunk on the light in the leaves

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a year to the day since I posted my very first fic on here, and so I thought I'd celebrate—since it's the First of May, and [outdoor fucking starts today](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gEjRHFom1Kk)—with a little pastoral sex fic. This is technically set in the Fountainverse, but it's light enough on the details that you don't need to know anything except that the war is over and they're together and happy.
> 
> Title from Phillis Levin's [May Day](https://poets.org/poem/may-day), a poem I've loved for ages and always revisit this time of year. It felt like a good fit for Jaime, who is definitely 100% still alive and drunk on sunlight. And on Brienne.

They’re walking by a broken wall in what had been a village once when Jaime’s teasing finally pushes her too far and she shoves him flush against the crumbling stone and kisses him senseless, and he can’t even say why he does it; he just has to. Something about the way she tilts her head back to soak in the heat of the late spring sun, the glint of her pale lashes caught in the light. Something about the reddened skin at the hollow of her throat where her shirt has pulled loose with the day’s riding—no armor, although they’re both still armed, but the peace holds firm enough in the Crownlands nowadays that they can ride out past the walls of the city in just leathers and linen, no metal plate weighing them down. The warm afternoon breeze is a teasing kiss on his skin, and it makes him think of kissing Brienne, until his blood is thrumming and he’s walking just a little too close, whispering in the low, rasped voice that rouses her, and then the wall is rough against his back and her hands are firm on his hips and her mouth is hot and wet where it's pressed to his own. A man with a dead family has no right to feel this giddy. It doesn’t stop him.

When she lets him go, his cock is half-hard in his breeches, but before he can pin her against the wall in turn she steps back, out of reach, and gestures towards the woodlands on the other side of the crumbling wall.

“This way,” she tells him. “There's fruit trees across the field; they were in blossom the last time we came through here.”

Jaime traipses through the knee-high weeds in her wake—there’s not much left of this place; not much left of many of the little villages that had scattered the fields along the Kingsroad in the long years of summer. After the war, the people who’d survived it had clustered in market towns, or migrated to take part in the rebuilding of King’s Landing. The population of the Crownlands is barely half what it had been, and there aren’t enough of them to sustain every little farming settlement. Brienne and a company of Kingsguard patrol them from time to time, to make sure no bandits are sheltering in the places where the fields have gone fallow. But this isn’t a patrol: this is a rare day off for both of them, some stolen happiness, and they’re less than half a day’s ride from the city walls now, so they go unarmored, the swords just a habitual precaution at their sides. The horses are tied up back at the stone wall, grazing in the overgrowth. And she was right about the fruit trees: there’s a stand of cherries, pink and yellow but sweet to the taste, and one of small sour green plums, which make his mouth pucker until he persuades her to kiss the taste away. 

He shucks off his boots and unbuckles his sword belt and tosses it to the foot of a tree, and walks barefoot through the soft grass to sit down in a half-shaded patch close by. Brienne follows suit, lounging next to him, talking aimlessly, and laughing at his juvenile attempts to spit cherry pits far enough to hit a prominent burl on a nearby trunk. Jaime pulls his shirt off, enjoying the warmth of the sunshine on his skin, and before long he takes the wooden hand off too, so he can lie down and rest the back of his head on his stump. Brienne stretches out further, propping herself up on her elbows, head tipped back to watch the clouds, while he watches her—her face dappled with little shadows from the breeze stirring the branches above them, like big soft freckles made by the leaves. 

Before long, his fingers are stroking the curve of her shoulder, and the line of her exposed collarbone, and then they’re toying with the laces at the front of her shirt, pulling them loose.

Brienne blushes when she realizes what he’s doing. “Jaime,” she says—not reproving, but perhaps a little surprised. She’s not easily shocked—she never was, in truth—nor really ever shy anymore, not with him, not in their bed. But they aren’t in bed; they’re in an overgrown orchard, alone except for the birds and the horses just out of sight and the distant faint hum of bees. They’ve never fucked in the open air, and suddenly it’s the only thing he can think to want, the only thing he can think of at all.

“We’ve lain on the bare ground before,” he says, and kisses her, tasting the sweetness of the cherry juice on her lips. For nearly a month’s journey across the Riverlands, in worse weather, and with far less pleasant sport to pass the time.

“Not like this,” she protests, but she’s smiling, kissing him back, then unlacing the knot of his breeches while he nuzzles her neck. Jaime yanks them down, freeing his eager cock, then gets the hem of her shirt loose from her breeches, running his fingertips along the small of her back and feeling her shiver in response. She’s startled when he starts to draw it over her head.

“Everything,” he says, grinning. He wants her bare, from her tousled head to her crooked little toe, and himself the same, both of them in just their skin. Brienne rolls her eyes. 

“There could be ants,” she says. “There are _definitely_ bees.”

“I don’t care,” he tells her, and she gives way to him, and the surging little thrill of victory is as sweet as it is every time; it never loses its savor.

He sits back on his heels, the grass tickling his arse, and watches while she wriggles out of her shirt and lies back down, laughing, a cream-and-gold vision against the green. He goes for her breasts first, because she loves that—suckling and biting her nipples until their color is as deep-dyed a pink as the heads of clover scattered in the grass. The flaxen tufts of hair under her arms are darkened with sweat, and the one between her legs, with desire. The sweet flushed pinks of her cunt peek out as he peels her breeches down her impossibly long legs, tossing them to the side and spreading her open to taste. He’ll never get tired of this—the musky, ripe smell of her, the salt-and-copper flavor. He licks and kisses and nuzzles her slick swollen skin, sucks the stiff peak between his lips and tongues it until she writhes, his palm flat on her belly to hold her in place. She bucks up into his mouth, ready to grind against him and take her pleasure, but he wants to take it slowly, wants to drive her to distraction. 

“Jaime,” she says, hoarser now, her hands tangled in his hair, and he grins right into the softest part of her and comes up for breath. 

“Patience, Ser,” he tells her, and something about the look on his face must drive her past it, because between one breath and the next she’s got a hand on his shoulder and a hip shoved against his chest and he’s flipped onto his back in the grass, blinking the sun out of his eyes. And then she’s on him and turning—and oh, gods, two can play at this game and he’s taught her well, because her cunt is hovering over his face, but _her_ face is between his thighs and then her mouth is closing around the head of his cock and it’s his turn to be biting back half-sobbed curses, a whimper caught in his throat. 

It’s a blessing they’re so well matched in height, it truly is, because this has turned out to one of her favorites, when she wants to draw things out—he rarely lasts long with his cock in her mouth, but with his senses deliciously divided between the feeling of her lips around him and the work of his own mouth, it goes slower: the tension rising and falling and rising and falling, building a little higher with every swell. 

He fucks her with his tongue and she moans around his cock and grips his hips so hard that he hopes she’ll leave bruises, fingerprints darkening on his skin the next day. He feels his balls start to tighten, and eases off a little, catching his breath, waiting for her to follow his lead—and when his cock slips free, he seizes the advantage and rolls them again, pushing himself up on his good arm so he can scramble back between her legs. She’s marvelously disheveled, skin reddened all over—from arousal and exertion, from the sun, from his mouth and his beard and his hands. Her limbs are shiny with sweat, sprawling out beneath him, and she’s panting and probably a little tired from the effort of holding herself on top all that time. She’s half-spent already and still taut with need, and Jaime wants to fuck her. Brienne sets a hand on the back of his neck and pulls him down into a bruising kiss.

Her tongue is still in his mouth when he pushes inside, and he feels as much as hears the low groan she makes as she stretches open around his cock, hotter than the sunshine and a thousand times as good. She wraps her legs around him as he thrusts into her, slow and lazy and sweet, and he cherishes the firm grip of her thighs around his hips, the muscle of her calves locked against the small of his back: she’s taller and younger and stronger; she’ll outlive him, and he’s so glad. Her hand comes up to stroke his cheek and he sucks her thumb into his mouth. She lets out a low chuckle and gives him a finger as well, then two, the sword calluses rough against his eager tongue. 

He mourns a little when she takes them away, but then he feels her hand trailing down the curve of his arse and lower, behind, until she’s stroking and pressing his hole with every thrust, and _fuck_ , it feels so—oh, it’s impractical, but he wishes for the contents of the little chest at their bedside. If it was here, he’d fuck her until he was spent and let her turn him over on his stomach and fuck him into the ground next, wring him dry. The thought tears a groan from his throat, and he thrusts harder, shoving an arm under her thigh to lift her so the angle and pressure are just right, just what she needs. When he lowers his head to catch a nipple in his teeth and bites down just hard enough, he feels her go over the edge, seizing and shuddering around him, and he follows in a rush of blinding sensation.

Brienne’s heart thuds under his ear, her lungs heaving, as he lies spent on top of her, the sweet smell of crushed grass rising beneath them. Her fingers are cool on the nape of his neck, moving tenderly through his sweat-soaked hair. She’ll bear his weight as long as he lets her, and he does for a time, before rolling onto his back and drawing her with him so her face lies damp against his shoulder as they both catch their breath. The light has gone slanted and yellow; it’s late, almost evening, and before long they’ll need to get dressed and untie the horses and start the ride home. But for now, he marvels at the luck that’s kept him alive long enough to come back to this moment: stretched out beside her on the ground in the waning sunlight, at the edge of the woods. The only fetters on him now are invisible—the vows he’s made and means to keep, the ones he’s chosen in full knowledge of what they stand for, and every passing day he’s more grateful for what they bind him to. 

Jaime’s managed to learn something, these past two years, about building things meant to last. So he kisses the fair crown of her head—his wife, his wife, his wife: it’s no less sweet a thought for being familiar to him now—and lets the moment hold them a little longer, listening to the birdsong and the quiet murmur of the breeze.

**Author's Note:**

> AO3, in its infinite wisdom and inscrutable timekeeping, has dated this May 2, but I promise you I posted it on May Day.


End file.
